


Happy Christmas, Love Mycroft

by alyxpoe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:11:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because I thought that perhaps there are many ‘nice things’ that Mycroft does for his brother and that just maybe it is possible that Sherlock is not always aware of them all!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Schmiezi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schmiezi/gifts).



> Written as a Secret Santa gift for Schmiezi over at the BBC Sherlock forum.  
> The prompt:
> 
> (1) Johnlock romance,  
> (2) Mycroft does something nice,  
> (3) the perfect christmas present for Sherlock  
> (4) No Sherlolly

John sits in his soft leather ergonomic desk chair at the computer staring blearily at the empty web page before him. So far he has written exactly one word: _Christmas_. He even messed around with the font a bit in an effort to make it more festive, finally settling on a type of Comic Sans in glittery green and red. Of course, he erased that promptly because it is probably way too over the top. All he needs is for His Nibs to come over and start making wisecracks; John knows for sure that would set him off the task once again. At this rate he probably should just quit anyway. He sighs and stretches, rolling his aching shoulder until it pops and then rubs the kinks out of it gingerly with the other hand.

The room around him is comfortingly warm, the fire in the grate crackling merrily in accompaniment to the joyous lilt of the violin’s melody that is being gently coaxed from the instrument by the man in the corner. Sherlock is half in and half out of the shadows, dramatic even in pajamas and his old dressing gown. They have no other lights on in the flat save for the ones on the tree and the white twinkly lights that decorate the outside of the window. He does stop and reminds himself to send out the thank you card to Mycroft for the beautiful tree that so far Sherlock has not grumbled about overly much, which is a gift in itself. John is pretty sure that Mycroft’s assistant is to blame for the one hundred strands of twinkly fairy lights sent to the house in plain brown boxes last week, most of which John promptly hid from Sherlock, not wanting them to become experiments on any level; but it is the thought that counts, right?

John’s eyes wander over the other man’s form as he sips from the steaming mug sitting beside the keyboard. He hums along with the familiar melody, knowing instinctively that he will never cease to be amazed by the bloody ridiculous amount of talent Sherlock possesses in so many arenas. For someone who claims to ignore the mundane, well, certainly John could not ask for a better cup of tea or a more relaxing atmosphere on a cold night in December. Even the snow lightly drifting past the window outside seems to have been put in place just for his enjoyment. In his entire life he does not believe that he could have defined the word _home_ so well.

So, surrounded as he is by reminders of this winter holiday, he wants to say something meaningful, something that clearly illustrates the way he feels about this most enigmatic man that he spends his life with by choice; a small token gift that he can give the readers of the blog he has steadfastly been ignoring since beginning work on the first manuscript detailing some of the cases Sherlock completed in the years prior to their meeting. They have a publisher already interested, and John has had to make the book his priority in order to get it completed on time. This is one of those times when it is good that Sherlock is back in the limelight: it seems like half the business-owning population of London either owes him a favor or is in the process of being added to that list. He smiles a little to himself, picturing the mysterious Sherlock Holmes as the voice of _the Shadow_. Maybe it is because he was helping Harry clean out their parents’ house last week and he happened to come upon a box of his old comic books, or maybe it is because his mind is casting about for any last minute idea but it seems to get stuck on that concept for a moment.

He makes a mental note to see if he can really get Sherlock to say the catchphrase just once in that deeply seductive voice, then proceeds to fall into a daydream-like fantasy involving flashy black cars and a tall man in a long black cape; except in John’s fantasies, the omnipresent scarf around the Shadow’s neck is royal blue. Of course, if there was anyone in the world who knows _what lurks in the hearts of men_ it would certainly be his own personal Holmes brother and oh, boy the stuff that is presently lurking in _his_ heart he absolutely cannot write on his blog. Not if he wants to keep it at least somewhat family friendly.

….Perhaps this is the reason why his brain feels so clogged up right now. He fiddles with the mug in his hand before setting it back down.

Tearing his gaze from the artist-inspiring clotheshorse in the corner whose eyes are fluttering closed in some sort of musical ecstasy as his bow and fingers weave a story of notes and crescendos from the air and pointedly dragging himself back to the computer monitor, John’s attention is taken over by the black rectangle cruelly teasing him with its incessant blinking. He glares at it, blue eyes brightened to aquamarine by the light of the monitor, waiting for inspiration.

So of course nothing happens. Except that Sherlock plays several particularly sweet notes that threaten to break through John’s attempt at disciplining his mind and going to work on the self-imposed task at hand.

Once again, he sighs and places his fingers in their not-so-orthodox two-fingered position on the keyboard, resting his wrists and the heels of his hands against the smoothly rounded edge of the desk. Over in the corner in front of the window, Sherlock smirks to himself, an expression that an outsider would simply believe was the man concentrating on the instrument in his arms. Only two people on the planet would know otherwise, one of those being his brother, who is thankfully quite absent this evening.

The other one of those people is currently scowling at the computer as if trying to make the empty blog page write itself. Sherlock smirks again and changes melodies from _God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman_ to an almost unrecognizable version of _Happy Xmas._ He knows that any song by any given prior Beatle usually wins John’s attention back from whatever mundane thing he is doing that Sherlock believes does not directly involve _Himself_.

Of course, sometimes even Sherlock Holmes can be wrong.

John looks at the blank screen with its mocking cursor, knowing full well the game that Sherlock is playing. Ah well, at least it gives him a reason to play some stuff that’s a little more contemporary. He decides right then and there that he _will_ get this done tonight, even for no other reason than because two can play at this game. He tries hard to ignore the fact that it feels like the room just warmed up by about fifty degrees.

 _Tiny stars_    He writes and then thinks that there should be something _more_.

 _Tiny starbursts_  He deletes it altogether.

_Petite starbursts dancing against a Caribbean green backdrop in his eyes, making them appear to sparkle with an inner joy very few others will ever see._

“Well, that is just stupid.” He mumbles and backspaces the entire line again.

He starts over for the fourth time that evening.

 _He sways gently in front of the window, a performer onstage with a violin under his chin, the blinking of tiny white lights from outside reflecting back to dance across the translucent panes from the snow on the ground below. Our Christmas tree stands in the corner, the golden star on the top just above his head, the gentle skin-caressing glow of a colorful plethora of sparkling bulbs transforming the otherwise sharp angles of his face into lovely cherubic softness as he calmly coaxes such perfect sounds from the instrument in his arms. When he finally turns toward me, there are miniature starbursts dancing in those crystalline jade eyes, lending light to the flames of an inner joy very few others ever take the time to_ see _._

_I feel my breath catch in my chest._

_He is stunning._

“John.” A deep rumbling purr of baritone behind him partnered with the feeling of deft fingertips stroking the nape of his neck pulls John out of his reverie. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against a torso that finally, after all these months, is sporting just a slight bit more padding than it had in the past. He is only half listening to what his lover is saying to him, instead choosing to focus on the heat emanating from the skin underneath the satiny dressing gown.

“Is that truly the way you see me? As some half-naked childlike mythological figure in an improbably white nappie cavorting about under the faerie lights?” Sherlock narrows his eyes, and now he is glaring at the screen, silently daring it to cross him.

John giggles. “Yes, only your curls are most certainly not golden, regardless of the meaning of your name.” He rubs the back of his head against Sherlock for good measure.

Sherlock’s blue-screen-of-death glare intensifies. He wants to ask John why he writes such drivel and the words are _right there_ , but instead he hears himself say “Thank you.” John only hears the last word, however, because right at that precise moment the log in the fireplace decides to snap into two pieces.

John squirms around in his seat to regard Sherlock’s serious expression. “What?” He asks. Can he be faulted if his hand finds a resting place against a decadently plump gluteus muscle underneath all that soft material?

“Thank you, John.” He rumbles and then proceeds to physically drag John away from his writing with an even more clever use of his tongue.


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock pouts and has a dream. Lestrade gets a note.

Sherlock paces the floor of the flat, covering the distance from the door to the kitchen in four long strides as if he is strutting down the cat walk with his dramatically flouncy dressing gown and expressively Bohemian bare feet. He is irritated that John is not home. He is even more irritated that John is not home due to the omnipresent annoyance in his life that is most aptly named _Mycroft_. Furthermore, his irritation is reaching new heights not only due to the fact that Mycroft pulled John away from the flat (and, by extension from Sherlock) for a few days because it is only two days until Christmas, which just happens to be John’s favorite holiday of the year. Granted, Sherlock can take it or leave it, but he has some things planned for the two of them that involve possibly not leaving the bedroom for several hours at a stretch and perhaps involving some of Mrs. Hudson’s sumptuous treacle tart.

On his twelfth pass, he snatches his mobile from the low table in front of the sofa in order to stab at the keyboard with his index finger. Apparently everyone is busy. Lestrade is even ignoring his pleas for a case, _any_ case, even something as mundane as missing jewelry.

He receives a single text back from the DI, in response to the ten or so he has volleyed into cyberspace, and that single text does not please him by any stretch of the imagination. He frowns, causing a line of wrinkles to crease between his eyebrows and his lush lips to turn down at the corners in a pout. The consulting detective taps at the screen of the phone for a few short minutes longer before tossing the thing in the direction of John’s chair where it loudly smacks the seat then bounces none so gently to the floor. John would be thrilled that the extra shock-resistant case he purchased for his lean, pouty, and rather handsome _cherub_ actually took the beating he shelled out over twenty pounds for. It seems to have been worth every pence. Of course, Sherlock liked the yellow and black striped pattern, though it was one more thing he would grumble about profusely rather than admit that he was secretly thrilled that his gun-toting teddy bear remembered how much respect he has for the lowly honey bee. Changing direction, he crosses the room to the window in order to crack it open so that he can stare down at the snow that has since been cleared for walking and is piling up on the side of the road in dingy frozen grey clumps. “Must be what is keeping the criminals lying low.” He grouses to himself before starting another round of pacing, his bare heels thumping against the wooden floors.

On his fifteenth pass through the sitting room, Sherlock drops heavily onto the sofa with his lips pursed into a tight, thin line, his ratty old dressing gown puffing into the air with the grace of a parachute slowly descending to land. He crosses his legs and his arms over his chest, effectively locking his rather Ichabod Crane-like self into a tight knot. John would tell him that he is being ridiculous. _Well_ , he argues with the John in his head, _you aren’t exactly here to say that, now are you_? He snorts and blows air through his lips.

This is so boring!

After a few moments of sitting with arms and legs locked tight, Sherlock flops onto his back in order to study the ceiling. That is just as boring as pacing, even more so because the view never changes. He huffs out loud, making little puffs of air from his mouth that causes the curls falling over his forehead to bounce. That is interesting for about five seconds. He wonders what type of grossly overly exaggerated prose John would write about _that_ , so, in the true nature of scientific discovery, he does it again.

And again.

John would actually laugh his pants off watching such a great mind be thoroughly entertained by this simple action, though Sherlock would only do something like this again in order to watch John’s wonderfully expressive face. Finally growing bored with it, he stops after a bit and continues to stare at the ceiling, sliding deeper into an ashen fugue before falling asleep stretched out on his back, long bare toes resting on the arm of the sofa, one arm hanging off the edge with his mouth wide open in a snore that many loggers would be proud of.

It is this way that Mrs. Hudson finds him and drapes the blanket from the back of the sofa over him. He snorts, closes his mouth and then somehow manages to turn over without falling off which is nothing short of a miracle because Sherlock’s shoulders are almost wider than the entire sitting area of the old piece of furniture.

Mrs. Hudson studies him for a few moments, remembering John’s beautiful description from his blog post detailing this man that she often thinks of as her brilliantly manic son. She thinks John is wrong on one account, though, it isn’t _cherubic softness_ that describes his face in times like this, but rather _dynamically innocent_. Mrs. Hudson wanders through the room, quietly picking up stray bits of paper and the occasional empty mug and puts them in their rightful places in the kitchen. She never throws the papers away, even when the little scraps seem like they should be binned, rather she simply stacks them on the kitchen table knowing full well from long practice that when HRH Holmes the Younger decides to get to them they ought to be there.

She twists the wet washcloth she uses to wipe off the counters over the basin and hangs it on the edge of the sink to dry before she realizes how cold it is in this flat. For all of her reminders that she is not their housekeeper, it is a bit of a secret between herself and a certain Mycroft Holmes that the extra money that shows up in her account from time to time is more than enough to cover a little dusting up now and then. Besides, for all the good that John and Sherlock do in the world, it is the least she can offer them. She smiles a little to herself as she closes the window, pulling it closed against the damp and the chill. When Mrs. Hudson flicks the light switch on the wall, the Christmas tree in the corner comes to life, the soft rainbow of color gently contrasting with the merry lights framing the window. The end result is one of hushed simplicity; something she knows is rare here, even at this time of year.

Once she is satisfied that the place has gone from _messy_ to merely _disorganized,_ but still cheery, Mrs. Hudson stands at the side of the sofa looking down on the snoozing detective, the warm colors from the tree reflecting the brilliance within. Long before John came along and proved to Sherlock that he indeed was not born without such an important part of his anatomy as the one organ vital to life even more so than the brain, she often found herself in this exact place, carefully caring for this young man who will never understand his own self-worth. “ _Sociopath_ , my Granny’s knickers.” she mutters as she lets the door latch click into place silently behind her.

From his spot on the couch, Sherlock’s limbs and eyes twitch in response to a dream of John wrapped in a shiny gold jumper and tight black jeans. Behind John stands an open-air sleigh of monstrous proportions pulled not by tiny reindeer, but an eight-piece set of monstrous North American Elk ( _Cervus canadensis_ to be exact) wearing blood-red leather harnesses. Silver bits in their mouths and silver hardware on the harnesses contrast with the bright glow of John’s clothing. A constant jingling sound erupts from the bells that dance upon their necks as each bull stamps his feet in impatience to be off and running. Deep in the healing arms of slumber, the great detective smiles at his brother’s ever dramatic entrance and attention to detail. Mycroft-as-Father-Christmas is impeccably dressed in a scarlet three-piece suit, and though he wears no snow white whiskers on his face, his auburn hair is the color of new snow and his piercing blue eyes gleam over a pair of small, round-rimmed glasses. Upon waking several hours later, Sherlock will wonder at the fact that somehow Mycroft does not look the slightest bit out of place surrounded by such surreal images.

He soon shakes it off and decides dreams are useless. After dressing quickly (and avoiding any shade of the color red at all costs) he meanders about the streets until he finds his way to Lestrade’s office where he realizes with a start that it is December 24th and John still has not yet come home. Lestrade starts to offer him a stack of old case files when Sherlock shakes his head and flounces out of his office as quickly as he came.

A few moments later, Sally knocks lightly on the doorframe. Lestrade looks up from the omnipresent stack of paperwork on his desk and nods that it is okay for her to enter.

“What was that all about?” Sally queries.

Lestrade looks from the now-empty chair in front of his desk to the calendar hanging on the wall behind him and then back to Sally. He shrugs. “Dunno, he took one look at the calendar and froze.”

“Wonder what the Frea…” Sally starts.

Lestrade interrupts with a stern “Sally.” Ever since Sherlock’s return one year ago, Lestrade has been taking great pains to make his people offer some measure of respect the man who essentially helped them all keep their jobs, save for Anderson. Some things in this world are simply _beyond_ help and a wise man knows to accept them for what they are.

Sally reaches down towards the floor beside her, just out of Lestrade’s line of sight, and holds up a large pine-bough wreath. It is made of hunter green boughs entwined around what appears to be red berries of a color Lestrade generally grudgingly calls ‘dried blood’. She hangs it on the hook on the back of the door and stands back to admire it. There is a tiny neat red bow at the bottom from which hangs a shiny silver bell. Lestrade thinks it may actually be real silver if the overall quality of the wreath is any indication of its purchase price.

“Huh, boss, who would leave you something like this?” She gestures towards the nice-smelling decoration. When Lestrade looks at it, he decides that his office is just that much cheerier for the weather outside and the mountain of paperwork in front of him.

“Have no idea.” He says. “Not my jurisdiction.” He pretends to be interested in the papers on his desk.

“Well then.” He looks back to Sally to see her tugging at a very small tag attached to the back of the wreath. She reads it and lays it down on his desk right in the middle of the paper he is actually reading as she steps out the door. He picks it up and smiles as he reads the precise lettering of the handwriting. Even such a short message conjures images in his mind of icy blue eyes and a well-protected heart. Suddenly, staying at the Yard so late one day before Christmas is a really stupid idea. A picture of a crystal tumbler exactly one-quarter filled with a soothing amber liquid pops into his head, the crystal backlit and the whisky glowing from the white fairy lights and candles that serenely decorate the sitting room fill him with a joy he so rarely gets to feel, let alone share. It is time to go home. He wraps quickly in his coat and a scarf that is the exact same shade as the bow on the wreath, leaving the note on his desk as he closes the door.

_Happy Christmas, Greg. Thank you for all that you do in keeping yours and mine safe throughout the year. –MH_


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is exhausted, Sherlock is possessive and Mycroft gives orders.

Mycroft Holmes likes very much to pretend that he is often much busier than he really is. It is absolutely true that with his _minor_ position in the British Government he is often up to his elbows with work, the opposite does occur quite often. At this very moment, his freshly polished black Italian leather bespoke shoes are losing quite a bit of their gloss due to the dingy heavy clumps of snow that has been packed up against the curb of Baker Street. They look even greyer and dingier at three in the morning.

As to why he is now stepping upon the curb of Baker Street is another thing altogether. He is here to drop off his brother’s flatmate-lover- _partner_ , ah that is a better word…and since Dr. Watson is exhausted, Mycroft selflessly offered his help since he knew that even attempting to call Sherlock down to the street from his warm flat upstairs was tantamount to asking him to wax his car with the soft cloth he keeps for cleaning his violin. For a second Mycroft considered that to be an excellent practical joke, but then the reciprocation might not be worth the effort. After all, it takes a Holmes to beat a Holmes.

“Mycroft, I am really not fragile. I can make it up the stairs on my own steam.” John steps up beside Mycroft, truly looking completely done in from the dark circles under his eyes to his messy hair and the stray bit of dried blood on his cheek that he missed when he scrubbed up earlier.

“I must insist, John.” Mycroft speaks plainly through lips thinned in a line. He is truly perturbed about his shoes. More perturbed than that little upstart from the militia in that tiny country who tried to start a coup; of course that has no bearing on the issue at hand.

“Alright. Fine. Follow me then.” John dips his head and holds out an arm like an actor taking a bow after last curtain. A tired sounding laugh escapes him as he unlocks the front door but not before leaning his forehead against it and closing his eyes. “I’m getting too old for these what? fifty hours or something clandestine emergency surgery runs, Mycroft.”

Mycroft says nothing to that statement. He is actually quite chuffed about having such an excellent surgeon at his beck and call that thoroughly enjoys these _clandestine emergency surgery runs_ no matter how much he protests. “I appreciate it, John, those three men are able to return to their families after things went pear-shaped and they have you to thank.”

“You’re welcome.” John mumbles against the door.

Mycroft reaches around him and turns the knob, easing John back with a slight pressure on his shoulder. “Up you get.” Mycroft commands, starting to reach out and rest the palm of his hand on John’s back but stops just before he actually does it because he knows the fury he would unleash from a certain very possessive consulting detective.

John made it to the very first stair before he spun around on his heels and planted his backside dead center of it. “Gimme a mo.”

Mycroft thinks that the mumbling has got to stop. “John, if you would be so kind as to simply haul your arse up those stairs there is probably a nice comfy sofa you may collapse on. I do not think for one second that neither my brother nor Mrs. Hudson would approve of you sleeping down here on Christmas Day.”

“I know.” John slurs. “’m still gettin’ too old for this.”

“No, John, you are not. Everyone has their limits and you survive every single day with my baby brother with your wits intact and your mental health in relatively stable equilibrium, I am sure the next sixteen steps will absolutely not do you in.”

“Good God, Mycroft, that was a lot of words.” John does a perfect face plant right into his hand. He can still see the torn bits of flesh and the bright red flowing blood as it breaks through the skin and the iron inside reacts to the oxygen…damn he is tired. He rubs his eyes with his hands and remembers his precise stitching in such neat little rows. Rows. Rows of stairs. He can do this. He pulls himself to his feet using the banister.

Mycroft sensibly steps behind him, thinking that if he falls forward he should be able to at least catch himself on his hands before catching his face on one of the steps. As it turns out, it is a good plan because when John does teeter on the second to the last stop to the partially open door, he falls backward just a bit. Mycroft reacts without thinking, using both hands to steady John. John mumbles his thanks and pushes open the door.

The sight that greets them is one that will live in his mind the rest of his life. The room is dark in only the way three in the morning in London can be. The Christmas tree is lit up in the corner, the fairy lights twinkle merrily around the window and his little brother is stretched out on the sofa stark raving naked.

Well, except for the violin that happens to be rather artfully covering most of the bits that usually embarrass people. People who live civilized lives, Mycroft thinks.

In front of him John freezes. Sherlock stirs on the couch, his normally active mind taking a mere two seconds to come back online and his eyes blaze, obviously only seeing John. He stretches languidly against the cushions and gives his John a rather predatory grin, his lips opening just enough to let the bottoms of his top canines show in what Mycroft thinks is some sort of primitive display of seduction. He huffs out loud.

Sherlock finally sees his brother. Then he sees the hand that is not his own resting on John’s shoulder. It is obvious to Mycroft that for all his brains and quick skill that he misses the even more obvious fact that he is practically _holding John upright_. He has got to head this curly-haired train wreck off at the pass. Now.

“Sherlock HOLMES!” Mycroft bellows in a very good likeness of the voice John used several hours ago to make the nurse assisting him pay closer attention to the stitches and not the blood; Mycroft knows that the nurse’s actions will severely limit any future assignments for him with Mycroft’s team.

The shouting does exactly what Mycroft hoped it would do: stops Sherlock cold in his tracks. Sherlock cocks his head to the side and stares at his brother. Mycroft seriously wants to relish this, but for now there are more important issues to worry about: all of which are an almost dead on his feet ex-army surgeon.

“Sherlock put some bottoms on. Go in the kitchen and make the good doctor a cup of tea. Do it right. After he enjoys his hot beverage, you are going to put him to bed and let him _rest_. Do I make myself clear?” Mycroft is thoroughly enjoying this raising his voice business. Most of his minio…assistants are so cowed by him that he never has to speak louder than politeness dictates. It is to his own credit that he does not laugh like a maniac at his little brother’s white bum as it wiggles through the room at a speed usually reserved for chasing criminals over rooftops.

Now John is really swaying on his feet. Mycroft guides him to the sofa and helps him out of his coat. John is virtually asleep though Mycroft is quite amused at how he has missed the whole Sherlock-in-his-birthday suit debacle, but then again, he does see that all of the time.

In record time, Sherlock returns to the sitting room in a pair of green and red tartan pajama bottoms and cradling a cup of steaming tea in one hand. Mycroft takes one look at the bottoms and arches an eyebrow. Sherlock wrinkles his nose in a move that is a dare for Mycroft to say one thing about these new jim jams that John bought for him one night after he had ripped them…

Mycroft shakes his head. Truly, there are some things that older brothers should never know about younger brothers. _Ever_. That was sort of the purpose in removing the bugs from the flat in the first place.

“Shut up you two, your silent posturing is loud enough to give me a headache.” John says from the sofa.

Mycroft nods in his direction. “I will take my leave then. Thank you for your help, John. Happy Christmas.”

John’s tired “Happy Christmas” is joined by Sherlock’s voice as Mycroft closes the door.


	4. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!

When Mycroft’s most annoying self is finally gone from the flat, Sherlock finally feels like he can join John on the couch. He scoots over until he is right up next to John so that John has no choice but to rest his arm on Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock pushes in closer, finally resting his head on John’s shoulder. John finishes his tea and is amazed at how the cup is deftly plucked from his fingers as he leans forward to deposit it on the coffee table. He waits until Sherlock lets go the cup before wrapping his very tired arms around him. John closes his eyes and leans his face against Sherlock’s, enjoying the warmth and closeness after the last two days. He knows how Sherlock hates those times when they are separated, but John still has a need to use his skills and Mycroft’s sporadic cases not only help him out in that respect, they also pay incredibly well. He decided a long time ago that they are worth the long exhausting slog, and that it is not just about the money, but about being able to help in general.

Daybreak gently unfolds around them, around Baker Street and around London, the midnight blue sky giving way to teal and then gold. The colors are bright and crisp in the cold air. John awakes with a start, he was so exhausted when he came in that he forgot to get up off the sofa and get into bed. He blinks his eyes against the sunlight and moves to stretch his arms and his back, running into an obstruction as he does so. His hands fall to his lap where his fingers quickly become tangled in a mess of ebony curls. Without warning, he remembers what day it is.

“Sherlock.”

There is a stirring on his lap, the stirring of a very large feline stretching itself awake in the sunshine. Sherlock rolls completely over so that he is looking up at John, emerald eyes alight with sparkling intensity. John feels himself falling all over again and leans down enough so that their lips touch briefly, which is certainly not enough for Sherlock at all because he grasps the back of John’s neck in one hand and practically drags him downward.

With all of Sherlock’s focus on his mouth, John soon melts into a big glob of putty there on the sofa on Christmas morning with the fairy lights and the Christmas tree. When he finally remembers that there were words he was going to say to Sherlock, it takes him a while to put his poor brain back in gear. Somehow he manages, though, by placing his hands against Sherlock’s shoulders and not quite prying him away.

“Just for a minute, Sherlock.” He says, catching his breath. Sherlock narrows his eyes, trying hard to look intimidating, something that has never really worked on John in the past and works even less now with his flushed cheeks and sensuously just-been-kissed mouth. It takes every ounce of his strength to not finish what Sherlock started _right now_.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock smiles wickedly, knowing full well what _that voice_ does to John. And certain parts of John’s anatomy, not the least of which is including his reptile brain. Sherlock reclines across John’s lap, elbow cocked and face resting against his palm.

“God, you are gorgeous.” The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them. Sherlock reaches back up but somehow John stops him with a hand to his mouth. “Sherlock, I did not get you a present.”

“What do I need a present for?” Sherlock’s belligerent tone simply spurs on John’s libido. Sherlock lunges forward, ignoring John’s mouth and settling on his neck instead. Another sound escapes John’s lips that he will forever refuse to call a ‘giggle’ as some of Sherlock’s mass of curly bed-head tickles his cheek.

“Sherlock, you know I love to give presents.”

“Don’t need anything. Got the most perfect present right here.” It is a testament to Sherlock’s bull-headed stubbornness that he can form anything resembling a sentence when his lips and teeth are working so diligently on John’s skin.

“Happy Christmas, then, Sherlock.” Is pretty much all John can say as he pushes against Sherlock and they slowly sink into the sofa. There is not much talking after that, though they will both agree that it is the best Christmas either one of them has had for many, many years.

**Author's Note:**

> The Shadow is a comic book superhero who seems at times to be a cross between Batman and the Godfather. His catch phrase is "The Shadow Knows' and it is very sad indeed that I can actually picture Benedict saying it. A few years ago they made a movie called 'The Shadow' starring one of the Baldwins (I think Alec.) It's not bad. If you are into comic book characters, you might be interested. 
> 
> Yeah, I'm sure everyone got the little nod to *Cabin Pressure* which I have recently been introduced to!
> 
> I'm sure you all got the reference to 'Sherlock' the name, which means 'fair haired.' 
> 
> And...that's the only ones I'm going to explain, but if you run into a reference that doesn't quite make sense, please don't hesitate to ask!


End file.
